NOTES FROM THE DEAD POETS

The leather back of his journal was quite old, as it had been tucked away in the highest part of the shelf for what felt like decades.

Opening it up felt like revealing a haunted part of his heart, it felt like a forbidden action. Six feet feels like a far place from here.

Dead poet society,

Reciting a piece is like

staging a revolution in a crowd that’s already moved on.

Regardless of the fact,

the artists let it drip from their tongues like honey.

Dead poet society,

Shakespeare and his posse

put to rout all that was not life,

Their purpose was to sail beyond sunset

Although made weak by time and fate,

strong in will.

Dead poet society,

Word artists stood upon high places to see;

in a different way.

They eschewed vehement criticisms just to own a voice.

Dead poet society,

Poetry is cold;

Regardless, contentment fills their souls,

knowing it’s alive,

Not ordinary.

Dead poet society,

It’s a dead poets society.

Grandad often forbade us from being artistic, due to the fact that everything poetic, even to the tips of their feather pens, was forbidden.

He once told me the story of how he snuck into a shed that had been burned down with a few poets inside. He made it out to be brutal. He stated that he chose the environment that contained the ruins of light and artistic realities because they gave him the flair he needed.

I can’t unsee it, Grandad.

I hope art never dies 🥹

This was a fictional piece by the way!